


here at the end of all things

by weatheredlaw



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 14:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: After a flu pandemic wipes out most of the world's population, Leonard Church settles into an abandoned homestead to wait out the end of the world.





	here at the end of all things

**Author's Note:**

> based on one of my favorite novels, 'the dog stars', this piece is about surviving, me playing fast and loose with how one might _do_ that surviving, and self-indulgence. enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Church convinces Sarge to do things differently. Tucker arrives with eggs. Wash brings home a girl.

Caboose is late coming in with their meager harvest, but Church can see him, hunched over the potatoes. He works at the ground while Sheila presses herself against his side, tail wagging. She is always happy to be near Caboose, always glad when he is close.

Church gets down a few plates for dinner, listens as Caboose comes in the back and knocks the dirt off his boots before stepping inside.

“I got five.”

“That’s good. They’re doing really well.”

“I think so.” Caboose takes some of the water and cleans a couple potatoes before he peels them. They’ll chop and fry them in the skillet with onions and some of the herbs Caboose dried the month before. The hunt last week didn’t go as well as planned, so they’re low on meat. Church needs to head up the road, soon, and talk to Sarge about going out again.

Sheila goes to her bed in the corner, stretches out her long terrier body and closes her eyes. She is tired and old, but hanging on. Caboose found her in the woods, wounded by an animal, and nursed her back to health. Sarge had wanted to eat her, but she’s useful on the hunts, despite her age.

“Maybe Tucker will come by with eggs,” Caboose says.

Church nods. “He could.”

“Junior likes Sheila.”

“That’s very true. Careful with the knife.”

Caboose slows down. Focuses.

Church knows the fever cooked his brain, but he likes to believe Caboose was always like this — a little out of sorts, always happy, good with animals.

“Let’s go up the road tomorrow,” Church says. “Talk to Sarge.”

“Oh, I’d like that.”

“Might be apples up there, too.”

Caboose looks at Church and smiles. “I would like that, too.”

 

* * *

 

Sarge and his boys live up the road in an old house on an orchard. In the summer it produces peaches, in the fall, apples. He claims the land’s been in his family for generations, and Church doesn’t really have any reason at all not to believe him, so he doesn’t argue. He has it on good authority that Sarge keeps a decent number of firearms in the attic, aside from the shotgun that never leaves his side.

He’s standing on the porch, watching them walk up the road. Caboose is carrying a basket of elephant garlic, some onions and a few jars of strawberry preserves from the summer. Caboose loves going up the road to see Sarge — Sarge kind of treats him like another one of his boys, but softer, letting him fix things around the house or climb to the tops of the taller trees and take down the hard to reach fruit.

“Donut’s out in the orchard,” he says as they approach. “Those for me?”

“Yes, sir!” Caboose sets the basket down. “Do you need my help?”

“Nah. Donut might, though.”

Caboose nods and jogs around the other side of the house, Sheila trotting after him. Sarge steps off the porch, gazing past Church at the sky beyond him.

“Might storm,” he says before he looks at him. “Just saw you a few days ago. What’s the occasion?”

“I want to try another hunt.”

“Too soon.”

Church moves around him, stepping onto the porch and giving himself some height. “If we expand, just a bit—”

“That’s asking for trouble, son. You know that.”

“But we’re running out of room in the old spots. We have to try some new places, go just a _little_ further.”

Sarge exhales, taking a step up onto the porch, forcing Church to lose his ground. “You know, I half expect you to be the death of that boy.”

That stings, but Church holds it in. “There are more of us. We need to start thinking about winter. If we can get two big kills, we’ll _all_ be set. You guys, me and Caboose, Tucker, even Wash—”

“You’ll have to talk to my boys.” Sarge goes to the chair he keeps on the porch and eases himself into it. He’s slowed down a lot the last couple years, reminds Church of Sheila in that way. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“I am,” Church says, and goes onto the porch and into the house.

Grif and Simmons are in the kitchen, talking in low voices and setting jars into a large pot on the stove. Grif leans down to stoke the wood and spots Church as he turns around, giving Simmons a nudge.

“Long time, no see,” Grif says. “The jars aren’t done yet, you can stop _hovering_ , dude.”

“Not here for the jars.” Church pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and sits down. “I’m here to ask if you want to try another hunt.”

Grif glances at Simmons, who nods. “Yeah,” Grif says. “We were, uh, just talking about this. Actually. Yesterday. But we didn’t want to bring it up with Sarge yet. He’s not so crazy about change.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Two kills, you think?” Simmons asks, lowering another jar into the pot. “Wash could get a lot out of them. And we’ve got the ice chest.”

“I think so. Plus the traps this winter.”

The back door swings open and Caboose and Donut come in, laden down with apples, chatting happily. Church waits until Donut’s left ear is turned toward him to say hello, and Donut grins and waves before he and Caboose head back out. Sheila comes over and presses the side of her face to Church’s thigh, leaning heavily and looking up at him, already tired.

“Is she good for another hunt so soon?” Simmons asks, once Caboose is out of earshot.

Church wants to tell him that Caboose knows Sheila’s time is almost up, that he talks about it with her, sometimes.

“She’s fine,” Church says, and scratches Sheila behind the ears. She sighs before laying down at his feet and closing her eyes.

Just before sundown, Church calls for Caboose to come back in, but Sarge insists they stay for dinner.

“And you’ll sleep here tonight. No sense walkin’ back in the dark.”

“Sleepover!” Donut chirps.

Church shakes his head. “We’ll be alright—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Sarge snaps, and sits down at the table.

That night, Church shares the fold-out couch with Caboose, who is out almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Almost.

He turns toward Church and says into the dark, “I miss Tex.”

Church stays quiet.

“Church? Are you asleep?”

Church closes his eyes, swallows carefully.

Caboose sighs and rolls over. “Alright. Good night, Church.”

 

* * *

 

_If staying here and taking care of this house is what you want to do, I won’t stop you. If staying here and taking care of Caboose is what you want to do, I won’t stop that either._

_But I can’t._

_I don’t know why the world needed to burn for you to figure out what you wanted, but it’s not the same for me. I’m sorry._

_I love you, please trust that._

_I just can’t stay._

 

* * *

 

The shutters on the second floor need to be repainted, so Church hauls out the ladder and has Caboose crank the record player they found scavenging a couple years back. Sarge was right the week before, that it might storm. It did, for almost four days straight. Caboose is still clearing out the muck from the garden, but he does those kinds of things with an enviable joy. For Caboose, the garden is almost everything.

For Church, it’s this house.

He found it, falling apart and abandoned, ravaged by looters. He’d left the city with Tex, after his father had died and his sister had taken off. Church knows he was lucky. The flu touched almost everyone, but he managed to get by unscathed. Even Tex had been sick for a while, but she’d recovered quickly. His mother wasn’t as lucky, and his father suffered for a long time.

Church has no idea if his sister got sick, or if she’s even alive. He hopes maybe she’ll find him.

He hopes a lot of things.

“Church!” Caboose calls from the front porch. “Tucker’s here!”

Church looks behind him and sees Tucker’s patched together mountain bike coming up the road, hauling a little trailer laden down with crates and his son. Junior has a book in his lap, but as the bike gets closer, he abandons it and jumps off the trailer, booking it ahead of Tucker down the road and running straight for Caboose.

By the time Church gets down the ladder, the two of them are signing rapidly to one another. Sheila bursts with a rare energy, licking Junior’s hands, forcing him to pet and scratch her sides.

Tucker pushes the bike through the yard and leans it against the side of the house.

“Was there a scratch up there? Had to redo all the siding?”

“Funny,” Church mutters, but they embrace anyway. “Eggs?”

“Eggs, dude.” Tucker picks up on of the crates and follows Church inside. “How’d you handle the rain?”

“Pretty good. Garden got fucked up, but we didn’t lose much. Caboose has got it mostly cleared out.”

“That’s good.” He sets the crate on the table and sits down. Church goes to pour two cups of coffee.

He says, “Talked Sarge into another hunt. Gonna push out a little further, maybe try somewhere new.”

“S’not a bad idea.” Tucker takes the mug and Church sits across from him. “Feels like winter’s gonna be up our asses pretty soon.” He cranes his neck to watch Junior out the backdoor.

Church takes a drink and asks, “Heard from Wash?”

Tucker scowls. “I’ve still got his horse, don’t I? I’m not his fucking keeper. He went to the city, he’ll be back.”

“Caboose is getting kind of antsy. Running low on some things. Used up a lot a couple months ago.”

Tucker stares into his mug. “Right.”

“Hey, that wasn’t your fault—”

“He’s my kid, Church. He’s my kid and he got sick. Shouldn’t have happened.”

“It wasn’t the flu—”

“ _What if it had been?_ ” Tucker sets his mug on the table, spilling coffee. “You don’t think I know what that would do? How much danger it would put us all in?”

“Tucker you can’t stop your son from getting sick. The best we can do is take care of him, and Caboose _did_ that.” Church reaches out and puts a hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. You’re a good father, you’ve done right by him from the very start.”

Tucker looks up, and maybe he believes it, maybe he doesn’t — but he nods, apologizes for wasting the coffee, and helps clean.

 

* * *

 

They all do something.

Sarge and his boys run the orchard, manage their hunts. Tucker’s managed to keep a decent number of chickens, just based on a few he found loose in the woods and a homebrewed incubator. Church and Caboose maintain the garden and Caboose is the closest thing they have to a doctor.

Wash goes to the city.

Whatever it’s called now, Church doesn’t know. Name changes all the time. But Wash has a horse he calls Cherry, and a truck he rarely uses. A few times a year he leaves Cherry in Tucker’s care, takes his truck, and goes into the city. He’s gone for days, doing god knows what. All Church knows is he comes back and whatever they’ve asked for, he usually has it.

Not two days after talking to Tucker, Church goes out onto the porch to see Wash riding Cherry up the road, saddlebags fit to burst. Sheila bounds out of the house, running to sniff around Cherry’s hooves as Wash lowers himself to the ground.

Church nods toward him. “Welcome back.”

“I didn’t mean to be gone so long. Rougher trip than I thought.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just…” Wash shakes his head. He’s gone grey far too early, even though he’s barely a few years older than Church. “It’s not important.” He pulls down one of the bags and brings it to Caboose on the porch. “Got what you asked for, bud.”

“Thanks, Wash.” Caboose sits down on the steps with his boxes of supplies and starts sorting things. There’s new IV drips and bags, disposable needs and fresh gauze. Even a few bottles of acetaminophen, the Ibuprofen labels torn or fading.

“I hope it’s enough. I couldn’t find everything, and the lidocaine cream is kind of small—”

“It’s perfect, don’t worry.” Caboose looks at him and grins. “This’ll help in the winter. It—” He grabs a bottle. “ _Is this NyQuil?!_ ”

Wash laughs. “Oh, shit. Yeah, I did find that.”

“This is great!”

“There’s some stuff for Junior, too. In case he gets sick again.”

Caboose’s head snaps up. He drops everything and goes to Wash, wrapping him in a bone crushing hug.

“ _Okay, Caboose_ —”

“No. Let me hug you.”

Wash sighs, catching Church’s eye. Church only shrugs.

“Alright,” Wash says, and gives in.

 

* * *

 

Church is grateful for the slow pace. He works on getting the house ready for the winter, which is really just busy work for himself. They go on two hunts in October, and that keeps them busy, gutting and cleaning the kill. Wash and Caboose are good at that sort of thing, so everyone gathers at Sarge’s place to watch the two of them almost surgically take apart the deer, divvying it up. Sarge has some kind of ice chest he’s Frankensteined together in a shed where they keep a big chunk of things. It’s a good day, and it’s probably the last real day of fall before the chill of winter sets in.

Everything’s just...nice, and sort of peaceful.

Which is why Church shouldn’t have let his guard down. Things never stay that way.

 

* * *

 

It’s three in the morning, and someone is banging down the door.

“ _What_ the _fuck?_ ” Church stumbles out of his room, undoing the locks on the door and yanking it open.

Wash is there, holding something in his arms, covered with a blanket. “I need Caboose,” he says, and pushes past Church into the house. He lays whatever he’s holding on the sofa and kneels down, pulling back the blanket.

It’s a girl.

“Who is she?”

“No idea. I found her while I was checking the perimeter. Couldn’t sleep, took Cherry out to sweep the edges and she was laying in the dirt.”

Church nods. “I’ll get—”

“Is everything okay?” Caboose pads into the sitting room, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It’s so _late._ Or early.” He moves closer and catches a glimpse of the girl on the couch. “What’s going on?”

“I found her,” Wash says. “I think she’s dehydrated, she might be sick—”

“Okay.” Caboose goes to the couch and kneels down by her head. He looks at Church. “She needs a bath, not too hot though. Like we did for Junior. Just the bottom, too.”

“Right.” Church goes to grab the pot from the kitchen and takes it to the side of the house to get some of the rain water they’ve collected. He heats it on the stove, walking between the living room and the kitchen, watching Caboose pull back the girl’s hair, check her pulse and her temperature. Wash gives him space, helps with the water and dumping it into the tub.

“She give you a name or anything?” Church asks. Wash shakes his head.

When they have the tub filled, Church adds some cooler water to take the temperature down and Caboose carries her into the bathroom. He has no qualms about getting her out of whatever she’s wearing — a tattered jacket and sweater, with jeans that are covered in what Church hopes is just dirt. He turns away while Caboose works quickly to get her clean, taking a rag and soaking it in the pot, wiping the dirt from her arms and chest. It takes almost an hour — she rouses once, blinking at them and swearing before falling unconscious again.

They get her into clean clothes and back on the couch. Caboose rouses her long enough to get her to take something for the fever, but she’s out just a minute after.

He looks up at Church. “I’ll sit with her.”

“You can go back to bed—”

“No. I’ll sit with her. You are...bad at taking care of people.”

“ _Hey._ ”

Caboose just shrugs. He checks her temperature again before he opens the book in his lap to read through the night.

“Fine,” Church says, and goes to bed.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up a few times and hears them talking. Caboose is right — Church is bad at taking care of people, but Caboose is bad at knowing when to stop. He’s been at it for hours, and it takes a lot of convincing to get him to finally go to bed, mostly because Church knows _absolutely_ that he couldn’t carry him.

He takes up vigil by the couch, and eventually, the girl wakes up.

“Ah, _fuck._ My head…” She presses her hands against her eyes and groans. “What the _fuck?_ ”

“Morning, sunshine.”

She uncovers one eye, narrowing it at Church. “You’re not the guy who was taking care of me.”

“No. _That_ was Caboose. I made him get some rest. Think you can walk? I can make you some breakfast.”

“Yeah, I think so.” She reaches for his hand and he helps her to her feet. She gets most of the way to the kitchen by herself before Church has to half-carry her to the table. “Guess not.”

“You’ve been through a lot. You need water, but go slow.” He gets her a glass and fills it, setting the bottle of Ibuprofen next to it. “Take a couple of those. You still feel feverish?”

“A little.”

“It’ll pass, Caboose said. You had a cut that was kind of gross. And he thinks you were sick, recently.”

She nods. “Yeah, pneumonia.”

“That’s rough.” Church cracks a couple eggs into the skillet after getting the stove top heated. “What’s your name?”

She finishes off her water. “Kaikaina. You can just call me Kai,” she adds. “It’s cool.”

“Alright. Kai. How’d you wind up out here?”

She shrugs. “Caravans, mostly. Been looking for my brother for a couple years now. I knew there was a city here, so I thought he might have made it out this way, but I didn’t find him. I saw a road and I just...started walking.”

“Were you sick in the city?”

Kai nods. “Yeah, there was a clinic there, but I don’t think it helped.”

“They do what they can. Your brother got a name?”

“Yeah. Dexter. Or Grif, I guess. Everyone’s always called my brother Grif.”

Church gives himself credit — he doesn’t flinch or even hardly blink, his back turned to her as he finishes the eggs.

“Well you’re in no condition to look for him right now.”

“ _Look_ , I’ve been taking care of myself for years now, _asshole_. And if I wanted your help I’d fucking—” She cuts herself off with a choking, hacking cough. Church sets the eggs on a plate and waits for it to subside. Kai takes a wet breath, the sound of it more like a rattle than air moving through lungs. She looks up at him and scowls. “Fuck you.”

“Eat your eggs,” he says. “And get back to bed. We’ll deal with this later.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


End file.
